I’ve been saving my pain since I was very young. Before my peers, I’m not ashamed to say. Measuring each discrete romantic insult against the others. Writing it down in the general ledger. A betrayal: twelve brass coins. Lost love: thirty in the bank. The interest paid to me fluctuates and correlates to the rate of my hopelessness. This past year the rate was high. And it’s time to add it all up again and see where I stand. Report. Fill out the forms; I claimed zero for insecure. But your affection costs me. In the morning, when you hold me, when you nestle me into your chest, under your heavy arms, and you say “I lost you in the night. Come back,” this fund loses value. Preciousness depletes. I think you aim to squander it all, this which I’ve spent a lifetime collecting, my darling hoard; you’d take it from me without regret, a second thought, just to live with me in lovely poverty.